


The Ballad Singer

by fengirl88



Series: The Old Bad Songs and other stories [17]
Category: Maurice (1987), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Crossover, Established Relationship, Inspired by Music, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever said you should never meet your crushes was dead right, Lestrade thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad Singer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [second_skin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/gifts).



> A little 221b nonsense for second_skin on her birthday; happy birthday sweetie!
> 
> The origin of Lestrade's crush appears in chapter 3 of [Nights at the Opera](http://archiveofourown.org/works/177384/chapters/260994).

Whoever said you should never meet your crushes was dead right, Lestrade thinks. He’s still blushing as he and Maurice push past what seems like half the Wigmore Hall audience queuing up to say Darling, You Were Marvellous.

Maurice’s old Cambridge friend Gerald Finley turned out to be just as nice as Maurice said he was. He’d hugged Maurice enthusiastically and expressed delight at finally meeting Lestrade, which didn’t help at all. 

Apart from the embarrassment, Lestrade’s quite enjoyed this evening. The décor’s completely bonkers but Maurice was right about the sound quality. Some cracking songs, too, even if the plots were a bit far-fetched.

“Why would anyone eat eels boiled in broo?” Lestrade asks, shuddering. “What is broo, anyway?”

“Broth,” Maurice says. “Don’t worry, you’re not getting that tonight. Even if eels are an aphrodisiac,” he adds, giving Lestrade’s arse a crafty squeeze.

“Lampreys,” says a familiar deep voice behind them. “Not eels.”

Trust Sherlock to turn up at just the wrong moment.

“Anyway, that girl was framed,” Sherlock says. “It’s obvious.”

“Oh right,” Lestrade says. “So who do you think bumped off Lord Randall, then?”

“The mother, of course,” Sherlock says. “She’s the one who gains by his death. Probably used a slow-acting poison to throw the blame on the girl. You can’t believe everything you hear in ballads.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gerald Finley's recording of "Lord Randall" appears on his CD The Ballad Singer, which also gives this fic its title.
> 
> Lyrics:
> 
> ‘O where hae ye been, Lord Randall, my son?  
> O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?’  
> ‘I hae been to the wild wood, mother,  
> I hae been to my true love, mother.  
> O make my bed soon,  
> For I’m weary wi’ hunting,  
> And fain would lie down.’
> 
> ‘Where gat ye your supper, Lord Randall, my son?  
> Where gat ye your supper, my handsome young man?’  
> ‘O I supped wi’ my true love, mother,  
> And I drank wi’ my true love, mother,  
> O make my bed soon,  
> For I’m weary wi’ hunting,  
> And fain would lie down.’
> 
> ‘What gat ye to supper, Lord Randall, my son?  
> What gat ye to supper, my handsome young man?’  
> ‘I gat eels boiled in broo, mother,  
> I gat ruby-red wine, mother,  
> O make my bed soon,  
> For I’m sick at the heart,  
> And fain would lie down.’
> 
> ‘O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!  
> I fear ye are poisoned, O ill-fated one!’  
> ‘In truth I am poisoned, mother,  
> O death is upon me, mother!  
> O make my bed soon,  
> For I’m sick at the heart,  
> And fain would lie down.’
> 
> ‘Say, what will ye leave your mother, Randall, my son?  
> Say, what will ye leave your mother, ill-fated one?’  
> ‘My coffers of gold and silver,  
> My vessels of gold and silver, mother,  
> Make my bed soon,  
> For I’m sick at the heart,  
> And fain would lie down.’
> 
> ‘Say, what will ye leave your true love, Randall, my son?  
> Say, what will ye leave your true love, ill-fated one?’  
> ‘A rope from hell to hang her!  
> A rope from hell to hang her! Mother,  
> Make my bed soon,  
> For I’m sick at the heart,  
> And fain would lie down.’
> 
>  
> 
> The Wigmore Hall cupola has its own video [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zjxl5KIDG8I).


End file.
